


A Wealth of Currants

by Liadt



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Matthew Shardlake Series - C. J. Sansom
Genre: Cake, Cake Fic Meme, Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-16 23:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: Matthew and Guy are in a sticky situation, but Ten appreciates a change.





	A Wealth of Currants

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the genprompt bingo prompt: artisan/craftsman.

I came to with a groan. My head ached and a manacle dug painfully into my left wrist. The last thing I recalled was stepping into the bakery late at night and a figure leaping out of the shadows. The stone floor I was lying on was cool and dry, with a dusting of flour. I surmised I was still in the bakery somewhere. 

“Matthew, you’re awake,” said a voice with a lisping accent. It belonged to my friend, Guy Malton. 

I shielded my eyes from the light of the candle he held to my face and sat up. We were in a small room with no windows. A mass slid off my head onto my lap. It smelt of spices. “A poultice for my scalp?” The blow to my head had left me confused.

Guy looked at me curiously. “I have yet to use cake as a treatment and I am not so poor an apothecary as to cover myself in cake as well as my patient.”

I stuck a finger in the mass and pulled out a lump. I sniffed it and tasted it, gingerly. It was currant cake, freshly baked, drizzled with honey and full of juicy raisins and currants. My eyes traveled back to Guy and I blinked several times to make certain I wasn’t seeing things. Under a generous layer of sticky cake crumbs, Guy was naked, save for his apothecary's cap. 

“I don't think it’s long until we meet the same fate as John Caldwell,” I said, suppressing a shudder.

John Caldwell's naked body had been discovered baked into an enormous, sweet pastry that had been destined for Sir Richard Louton's table. King Henry was paying his household a visit and he wished to impress his royal guest. Fortunately, for Sir Louton, but not Caldwell, the body was discovered before the pastry was served and his majesty had to make do with an apple tart. I brushed the cake off my lawyer's robe. It did not seem so appetising anymore. 

“If only I could afford the luxury of losing a few crumbs,” said Guy.

Unlike Guy, I had not lost any clothing. “I’m sorry. If it wasn't for this manacle I would give you my robe.”

“You could turn the robe inside out and slide it down the chain that joins us.” Guy gave the chain a shake. I hadn’t paid attention to where the chain of my manacle led. It was a long chain and it took longer than both of us liked unwinding the tangled links to get the robe to Guy. 

“Why haven’t my clothes been removed?”

Guy shrugged. “Perhaps you are an afterthought, an unexpected guest or whoever is responsible has not finished their work.”

I hoped this wasn’t the truth. Miserably, I pulled my doublet close around me, as if it would prevent a determined killer from removing it. It was a ridiculous time to be self-conscious, but it came easier to me than facing up to the prospect of a bizarre death.

“Did you see who brought us here?”

“No. I was knocked unconscious. When I came to there was no one here apart from you, my friend.” Guy gave me a smile. “I heard many footsteps going past a while ago, but I fear we are the only ones left in the building.”

I bit my thumbnail as a thought occurred to me. “Caldwell’s uncle was burnt as a heretic, was he not?”

“A heretic?” Guy furrowed his brow. At least, I assumed he had, as a shower of crumbs fell from his forehead.

“Caldwell's uncle belonged to an unusual group. They believe in a figure called The Doctor, who is an agent of God. It is said he has thirteen lives and has protected the world since the beginning. One of the legends they have created around him concerns his tenth reincarnation naked, except for one article of clothing, covered in cake and chained to his third incarnation. I can’t remember how the tale ends, but it is the fault of his enemy, The Master, who is in league with the Devil. The Master is commonly depicted as a black clad man with dark hair and a goatee beard. His eyes, it is said, are deep, dark and hypnotic.”

“The new apothecary next door fits the description.”

“As might many a man in London. I can find no fault in him, although there is something about him that suggests a whiff of Brimstone. He is unfailingly courteous to me when I pass him in the street.”

“And to me. When he first moved into his store, he came round to introduce himself. He stared intently into my eyes. I felt I was being hypnotised, but I put it down to something I ate making me feel out of sorts. He wanted me to leave the shop and go with him to… I don’t know where. My mind fogs over when I try to remember. I know I didn't go and he was displeased. It can't have been his premises or I would have helped him unpack his stock.”

“Odd.”

“And yet.”

“It makes Martin Jurgens The Master. A prince of darkness!”

“He’s not using that name again, is he?” said a voice behind us. We jumped and turned to face a man with short, spiky, brown hair. His eyes shone with energy. The idea that Master Jurgens could be a creature from hell had distracted us from the sound of the cell door opening. 

“He's gone to town on you, hasn't he?” said the man to Guy. He took a handful of cake off Guy's shoulder. “Mmm, fruit cake, not his usual style, but then we are pre-frosting, sprinkles and those little silver balls. I'm glad it's not me for a change - it takes months to get all the crumbs out. It's worse than sand in a picnic at the beach. And you're not my third regeneration,” said the man, turning his attention to me. “Which is a relief. Always complains about the cream ruining his velvet jacket, when he's lucky he’s wearing clothes. In any case, if it wasn’t for the cake, he'd never get those jackets cleaned. It's hard to find a decent dry cleaners off Earth.”

“You think you are The Doctor,” I interrupted him. He could clearly babble on all day and I wanted to get out of this situation, if only for Guy's comfort, if not my less cakey self.

“Think? I am the Doctor. Look.” With a flourish, he showed us a document from the College of Physicians, confirming he was authorised to practice as a doctor.

“You’re _a_ doctor, Doctor Smith,” I corrected him.

“I can see you have an enquiring mind and I need a new piece of paper,” said Smith, disappointed. He had obviously expected a different reaction.

“Have you come to free us?” asked Guy.

“Good question! Yes, I have. I was after the Master, but while I'm here….” Smith put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a stubby wand that glowed and buzzed.

Guy and I moved back in alarm. It was a childish reaction, perhaps, but there was something uncanny about the wand.

“Hey, don’t move off. I can undo your chains.”

We let Smith come close to us. He ran the wand up and down our manacles. “OK, I can't. If there were any screws ... but who cares about chains? You’re free. There's no one in the bakery to harm you or raise an eyebrow. I’d get cleaned up before going out - trying to convince people you’re modeling the latest line in edible fashion never works. If I'm right, the Master has taken his servants with him to the docks. I was aiming to stop him here and have a quick snack. I'll have to get a bite in the TARDIS later. The real mystery is why he's covered you in cake and not me.”

“Has it anything to do with the murder of John Caldwell? I'm investigating why he ended up cooked in an enormous pastry. I'm Matthew Shardlake and this is my friend, Guy Malton,” I said, making a belated introduction. 

Smith stared into my eyes. I tried not to flinch, it was as if he could see into the depths of my very soul. Meeting his gaze, it was apparent he was far wiser than his manner suggested. 

“Yes, you do look the detective type. It’s the melancholy expression. Detectives that are overly cheerful end up making work for themselves. It usually happens after a few months without a murder to solve. Unless they're little old ladies. It's the knitting and photos of babies that keep them happy.”

I frowned at him, more in puzzlement than anything else, but Smith misinterpreted it.

“The sad face looks good on you though, distinguished, as one of my earlier selves would say. Not like your friend, he's plain ordinary. Not that I'm being offensive, some humans just have the ability to blend in.”

John Smith was not a foreign name, but no English man would have said that about Guy. Sometimes it is better to pretend to be an angel than admit to be a foreigner in England, I am sad to say. 

“Were you born abroad?” I wanted to know the truth of this man before me.

“The furthest abroad you could imagine and then some. And to close your case, The Master is the type who would cook a human in a pie,” said Smith changing the subject. “Sometimes you humans can even put him to shame with your cruelty, but then I meet people like you and remember why I keep getting involved with this planet's inhabitants. When it comes down to it, no one should face the humiliation of being found covered in cake.” Smith gave us a large grin, span on his heel and dashed out of the cell. 

Later that day, after several large explosions had shaken the docks, Jack arrived at my house, hair singed and with an arm in a sling. He said his wounds had been tended to by a young woman as dark as Guy, but, in his opinion, much more attractive. Before he could properly acquaint himself with her, she left with a spiky haired stranger. Jack wasn't so complimentary about the man, but we agreed he was probably Smith.

Months later, Guy admitted Smith was right about the cake crumbs.


End file.
